Near Revival Stirring
by Meiran Chang
Summary: Set during 2x03: Finn makes a wish for his awesome God to bring Kurt and his dad back together again. Angst, gen, 1st person Finn POV. Prompt from the angst meme. Complete.
1. I

**Near Revival Stirring **

**I.**

I never really got the whole God thing before Grilled Cheesus came into my life. Like, yeah, Quinn was always pretty religious, and she seriously looked like a Hallmark card angel when she'd interrupt our make-out sessions to pray, but she'd pray for like a half-hour at a time and then get all mad that I fell asleep. And I know Mercedes is spiritual because her voice is like an entire gospel choir blasting the roof off. No way somebody who sings like that hasn't been kidnapped by a church before, is all I'm saying.

But Mercedes' God is so different from Quinn's God, who's definitely different from Rachel's God and Puck's God. Everyone's got their own direct line to their own personal Big-G God. I never had that connection, and I was all right with that. I had football and Glee and Call of Duty and stuff, and sure it wasn't perfect and Quinn gave me the stink-eye when I compared the Speech on the Mountain to Sarge's speech from Halo (I just meant they're both inspirational...).

Then I found God.

It was like finding MISSINGNO. Sure, it was two weeks after Puck did and he made fun of me when I cried over my glitched Hall of Fame entries, but that's not the point. I have found my personal Lord and savior.

Just because He's branded into a week-old grilled cheese sandwich doesn't make Him any less lordly, right?

Especially since _my_ God directly answers His followers' prayers. Well, I'm His only follower (so far- I found some awesome clip art for my Cheesurch Club sign-up sheet), so I guess He's just not that busy yet, but still, I feel full of this special glow, like a pregnancy glow, but without the crazy baby hormones. I'm invincible. God's got my back — literally, 'cause I've got God in a primo ziploc bag in my backpack — and He hasn't let me down yet.

When I hit the locker room after gym class, I think for sure that everyone's gonna be all grins and smiles. Considering that we broke a decade-long losing streak (we've gone eight full years with zero wins) thanks to Artie "Cannonball" Abrams and yours truly, I was fully expecting "Grats" and "You're the man" and fist-pumps and shoulder-bumps and all the awesome stuff about being friends with the guys that I honestly kind of missed. Glee's fun and all, sometimes, but I really, really hate being slushied, you know? It's like making out with a corn-syrup hurricane.

(And, okay, technically Kurt's the one who broke our losing streak last year, but he quit and we went right back to losing, so... it's nice to go back to winning. The first game of the season, that's a big deal.)

But in the locker room, everyone's talking about Kurt. And not the way they usually talk about Kurt ("I'mma beat the soprano out his freak ass the next time he wanna try and mouth off at me," "You think he goes into the bathroom with the girls so much 'cause he pisses sitting down?") but in this low-voiced way, like what they're talking about is way more serious than the fact that Kurt sometimes wears glitter eyeshadow or heeled boots or whatever. (Which they take pretty seriously to begin with.) When I ask, one of the guys gives me this hairy kind of look and tells me that Kurt's dad is in the hospital.

I tell him that's a messed-up joke to make. I don't really believe him, not until my phone goes off and it's my mom saying the same thing.

I don't think I've ever gotten dressed so fast. I'm still damp when I throw on my shirt and zip up my jeans. My hands are shaking like I'm cold, but I'm not cold, I'm scared, and I hate how that feels, like this big knot of all the stuff that clogs up the shower drain except it's in my throat and makes it hard to breathe. I don't even remember walking from the locker room to Glee Club, just being in there and seeing Kurt's dead, white face, and when my voice comes out it's so much louder than I mean it to be and he's looking at me like I 'm a zit with six legs and I run out of words and stare at my huge feet.

"Well, I'm sorry, Finn, it didn't occur to me to call you because he's _not your father."_

I mean, he's right that Burt's not my father. Burt's a great guy and I'm okay with him and Mom dating now, especially since Mom and I are back in our old house so there's some breathing space and respectable distance there. But he's not _my_ dad, and I know how close he and Kurt are. If I was as close to losing my mom as Kurt is to losing his dad, I'd be pretty torn up, too.

I'm really trying to get used to this whole being a family thing, and I definitely didn't mean to make Kurt feel even worse than I'm sure he already does. When he lets me sit down, I try to give him a comforting pat on the shoulder, but he doesn't even let me do that for him, so I stick my hands in my lap awkwardly instead.

I want to do something for him. For our family, you know? It's not fair that we're just starting to make this family thing work and already it's being taken away from us. A mom, a dad, and two kids, a big brother and a little brother (Kurt might be a month older, but he comes up to my knee so he's my little brother). That's what I want, and maybe it's not a family like everyone might think of when they say "family," but I thought we really had a shot at this thing. At the idea that it's gonna be over before it even really gets to start, I can feel my eyebrows pinching together like tweezers, giving me a headache.

Sitting next to Kurt during Glee that day is like sitting next to an ice cube in plaid pants. He hasn't used his hair stuff or his fancy cologne, which is weird to notice, I guess, but Kurt did kind of spend a lot of time practically on top of me last year, so I know how he's supposed to smell. Sitting next to him today, I might as well be sitting next to anybody, and you can say what you want about Kurt, but he isn't _like_ anybody I know.

When he says he doesn't believe in God, it's like winter just fell in that room. And he walks away like he's leaving tracks in the snow, but nobody follows him.


	2. II

**II. **

Next Glee practice, Kurt looks even worse. His eyes are puffy, and there are bags under them, and Kurt's pale and everything, but he looks like a vampire. He's perched up on the highest platform of the music room, wedged practically into a pile of unused chairs, not looking at anybody, not saying anything. How he managed to pull on all those layers and tie his scarf and everything is beyond me. When I'm upset it takes me like five tries to tie my shoelaces.

Mom says Burt's not doing any better.

Kurt is completely and totally unapologetic about helping Coach Sylvester ban spirituality from Glee. He doesn't seem to care when Rachel complains or Santana snaps or Mercedes tries gently to meet his eyes when she speaks. Nothing anyone says seems to penetrate the misery that's wrapped around him like one of his huge scarves, and he's staring someplace nobody's been.

The ban on spirituality songs does throw a wrench in my agreement with Grilled Cheesus, but since Our Savory Lord already granted us the football win, I think it's a done deal. At least, I hope I don't have to worry about it. God can't be that picky.

And then it hits me.

I've got _God_ in my backpack. God is good, right? He won us the first game of the season, and just yesterday He let me touch Rachel's boobs, and they were even better than I thought, all soft and warm and I even got to squeeze them a little while she kissed me and it. Was. Amazing. I'm distracted for a minute, looking over at Rachel, who's all covered up today in a turtleneck. I didn't think her boobs were that great at first, but man, that was before I touched them. They're great. She's great. Football and girl-boobs are two of the best things in the world, no doubt.

But family's definitely up there, too, and I know Kurt keeps saying he doesn't want prayer, but I think this is one prayer even he wouldn't mind. Family means just as much to him as it does to me. As I stare at him along with the rest of Glee, I remember what he said when we were picking out clothes for my dinner with the Fabrays, and man, that was a long time ago, but I remember what he said about his mom, about how he'd open up the cabinets just for the smell of her perfume.

I think about my dad's chair, and how for so long, nobody else sat there — nobody, until Burt did. I wonder if Kurt's dad has a chair, and my fingers flex on my knees when I think about a vase full of ashes where a father used to be.

If God does work like a genie, then I've only got one wish left, and it needs to be the right one. Forget that quarterback stuff. Sam's doing a good enough job, and I'll have time to deliver God's message once I make sure my family's okay.

In the empty locker room after Glee, I bow my head over My Cheesy Lord and press my hands together and pray, and when Puck walks in and asks, I can smile when I tell him, "I prayed for Kurt and his dad, too."

"Yeah?"

I nod with firm enthusiasm, secure in the knowledge that Grilled Cheesus will take care of the Hummels just like he's taking care of me. "I prayed that God'll bring Kurt and his dad together again."

"Cool," Puck says, and I spend practice feeling pretty good about myself.

-o-O-o-

But my mom is sobbing when I get home from school after football. She's just sitting on the kitchen stool, crying her eyes out. Panic washes over me like needles. I practically trip over my huge feet trying to rush over to her. She has her face in her hands, but her arms come back up around me when I wrap my arms around her.

"Mom? Mom!" I try to rub her back the way she does for me when I'm upset. "Mom, what's the matter, what happened?" My words are running together and I feel tears stinging my eyes too, just from seeing her worked up like this. Mom almost never cries in front of me, no matter what, even when our house was almost foreclosed or she lost her job at the gas station or she had to take three part-time jobs to pay our mortgage because no one was hiring full-time.

Mom looks up at me, her face splotchy and red.

"Burt died," she chokes out, and starts sobbing again.

"No! Mom, but that's, that's not—" I raise my hands and stare at her, feeling the taste of something thin and sharp at the back of my mouth. "I made a deal with God. It wasn't, it wasn't gonna— everything was gonna be— that can't be right. That's not right. We were gonna be— so that's not—"

"Oh, honey, sometimes..." Mom can barely get the words out. Her eyes look like broken glass. "Sometimes we can pray all we like, but God does what's in His plan." Her shoulders shake and she spits out, "Damned, stupid plan!"

"What about Kurt?"

Mom shudders, wiping her wet cheeks. "I told him he's welcome to stay with us as long as he likes. I took care of everything at the hospital. He said he wanted to spend one last night at home."

"Mom..."

"It's not fair," she whimpers, her face scrunched up tight as a fistful of paper. "Just when we find a little slice of happiness, just when we..."

"I'm still here. It's okay. It'll be okay," I promise her, wrapping my arms around her again. She's still crying, this horrible sound like her heart's coming apart in her chest. I stare at the faded kitchen wallpaper over the top of her frizzy hair, and the dingy scratches on the design blur into one gray smear. My mouth is open, like any second now, something will fall out that fixes everything.

Nothing does. I don't even know what I'm mumbling as we hold on to each other. I feel like I did when Quinn got kicked off the Cheerios and all I could do was rub her back, cold sweat dripping down my neck as my hand twitched against her shoulder-blades and I promised things I knew I had no way of making come true.

God is supposed to be good, I keep thinking, dazed. God is supposed to be good.


	3. III

**III.**

Mr. Schue is late to Glee Club, and Kurt hasn't been there all day. I only share math class with him, but Quinn and Rachel haven't seen him either, and every time I see Mercedes, she's checking her phone with a worried look on her face. Everyone at school's talking about Kurt's dad dying — no wonder he didn't come to school, I think miserably, I wouldn't have come either. I hear the blabber everywhere I walk, this constant, irritating sound like a gossipy seashell cupped to my ear. My face is twitching randomly, and my limbs have never felt longer and more useless.

Mom cried all last night. I could hear her even down the hall, my blanket pulled over my head in my own room. She didn't get up to make me breakfast, so I had two handfuls of Froot Loops and even that's been rattling around my stomach like rocks in a vacuum cleaner.

God is in my backpack, sitting tidy in His ziploc throne, probably getting all moldy. He's supposed to be the God who answers prayers, but instead He's just another God who _lies_.

We're waiting in the music room. Rachel's wrapped herself around my arm. She's trying to get me to talk, but all I do is say "uh-huh" and "sounds good," even when it doesn't make that much sense. Eventually, she just squeezes my arm tightly. Five minutes pass, then ten, which I only know because Santana's announcing it loudly.

When Mr. Schue finally comes in, he looks so tired. "Guys, I have some serious news," he says heavily as he takes his seat on the stool in front. Even his vest looks like it's slumping.

"We already heard about Kurt's dad," Tina says softly.

Mr. Schue shakes his head, pressing his lips together. A horrible silence stretches across the room. I can almost see it, can almost reach out and pluck it. Rachel's hand finds mine. "They found Kurt this afternoon," Mr. Schue says, his voice thick. "He killed himself."

"No!" It's my own voice that rises above the chaos that erupts, which surprises me. Something animates me, brings me to my feet, clenches my fists. I feel the veins in my neck sticking out. "No. No way! Kurt's stronger than that."

Mercedes is wailing. Quinn has her arms around Mercedes, hugging her hard, swaying with her just slightly, and I can hear Tina's thin sobs. Next to me, Rachel has her hands over her mouth, crying in sharp gasps. I hate it when girls cry.

"There's some mistake, Mr. Schue," I insist. My voice is supposed to come out full of authority and really strong, but it's shaking all over the place. "There has to be." There has to be, because this doesn't make sense. God wouldn't grant my wish about a stupid useless football game and then Rachel's boobs and then — do _this_. God is supposed to be good.

(Kurt can't be dead. He thought I was different and I still haven't showed him all the ways I _am_ different.)

"He left a note, Finn. He killed himself. I'm so sorry. I —"

"What did the note say?" Artie asks, subdued.

Mr. Schue looks torn about whether or not to answer, so I spit out, "Yeah, what'd it say?" because if I'm going to catch him lying, it'll be now. My breaths are coming all funny, choppy and uneven, and I'm still standing, my fists still balled up tight even though there's nothing to punch.

My phone rings, vibrating in my pocket. Without asking, I stumble out of my seat, my chair crashing to the floor, and push the door to the music room open so I can take the call outside. "Mom," I say instead of hello, my voice pleading.

"Oh, sweetheart, you heard?" Her hoarse voice breaks.

"It's not true."

"Finn—"

"It's not true because God wouldn't _do this!_"

"I know, honey. I know."

"No, you _don't_ know! God's a _liar!_" I roar, and I can see heads poking out of classrooms down the hall.

"Finn, honey, please—"

"What was in the note, Mom?"

"—Finn?"

"The note! Mr. Schue said Kurt left a note. What'd it say?"

"Honey, don't torture yourself—"

"What'd it _say?_" I scrub a hand across my wet eyes. "Mom, just tell me what it _said_."

There's nothing on the other end of the line. The phone creaks from the pressure of my fingers tightening around it. My mom finally says, "He said that this was the only way to bring him and his father together again." My breath leaves me in a huff. "That he preferred it this way. Finn, sweetie—"

I fall back against a row of lockers like God's finger just gave me a shove. I feel the ridges of the locker bumping hard against my back as my knees give out. I press the "end call" button on my phone without really thinking about it, and out of the corner of my eye I see different feet walking out of the music room, slowing, standing, walking on.

No pair of black Docs. Kurt loved those knee-length boots of his. I thought they were the coolest things in his wardrobe. Way better than the little white ones because those got messed up all the time and he'd sit at his little table in his room and seriously clean them with a toothbrush till they were shining again.

(God didn't kill Kurt and his dad. I did. I brought them both together, all right. I asked for that. I asked for them to die with my stupid grilled god. It's my fault. I did this.)

I see Rachel's patterned socks, instead. The bright colors look weird and warped against the dingy school tiles. I feel her kneel next to me and I hear her saying something, but I'm not sure what. I can't really register what's going on anymore, and I feel her leave my side. I keep gulping air and it's like nothing's coming into my lungs, my head nodding dumbly up and down with the movement of my chest. My hands are wrinkling up my jeans right over my knees.

Mr. Schue is hauling me up by my hands, Rachel hovering by his side, wringing her little hands. "Finn, c'mon, kiddo."

"But Kurt wouldn't ever do that, Mr. Schue," I say, my voice cracking as I turn to look Mr. Schue in the eyes. His mouth forms a little arc like an upside-down moon, and just when I start sobbing, he pulls me in for a hug right there in the middle of the hallway. "It's my fault. I killed them both." Mr. Schue's vest is scratchy and warm against my cheek, and my face feels hot and wet. "I killed them both."

"You didn't, Finn."

"I killed them both."

Rachel is standing still in the middle of the hallway when Mr. Schue starts walking me down to his office. I let him tug me along without another word, losing track of where my feet are and stumbling every now and then. He has to sit me down in the chair across from him, but then he leans forward, looking me right in the eyes.

"Finn, what happened to the Hummels _isn't. Your. Fault_."

"No, it is." I feel my expression wiggling around like static on an old TV. I grab my backpack and open it up and take out Grilled Cheesus, shoving my stupid god across the desk. "See?" I point to the burned image of the Lord. "See that? That's God."

Mr. Schue looks down at the sandwich, then back at me. "Finn, I'm not sure where you're going with this—"

"And I _asked God_," I interrupt, my voice rising, "for _three things_. I asked Him for a football win. I asked Him—" I choke up with how stupid and embarrassing this is. "I asked to get to second base with Rachel. And I got both of those things. And then, and then I asked Him to bring Kurt and his dad together. Now they're dead. They're together. So, no, Mr. Schue, you're _wrong_. I killed them."

"Finn—"

"Don't — don't just _say my name_ like I'm being some kind of _idiot!_"

I'm not sure what happens after that, but I'm on the floor in a wrecked office, and my fists are bleeding and Mr. Schue's holding me back like I'm fighting somebody but there's no one there except for my mom, and Mr. Schue has to help her get me to the car. My knuckles are torn-up and raw, my hands swollen and bruised, my fingers trembling. When we get home I close the door to my room and lie on my side. I just breathe.

At midnight I catch myself praying. I stop.

At two in the morning I run to the bathroom to throw up. I can hear Mom crying when I book it down the hall. When I come back to my room it's 3:12 AM.

I lie back down on my side. I just breathe. I can't stop.

**end**


End file.
